


The (un)Making of Tony Stark

by Waterlily23



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Child Abuse, Drug Addiction, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, It's not all bad!, Lots of Angst, Maria Stark's A+ Parenting, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rhodey is the best, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, this is a sad story kids, tony is Trying His Best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 11:57:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15314982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waterlily23/pseuds/Waterlily23
Summary: "The truth is I am IRON MAN."Iron Man may have been forged in an Afghan cave, but Tony Stark was shaped by a life of melancholy and excess. His father hated him, his mother was distant, and he spent so long drowning in substances he lost himself. Tony Stark is a mosaic of a man, pieced together from broken shards, edges jagged and painful.or, the origin story for the origin story





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a long time coming so, enjoy.

The note cards in his hands feel like leaded weights.

 

“You can’t expect us to believe that this was a bodyguard?” Christine Everheart, Vanity Fair, patronises.

 

No, he couldn’t. He hates lying, he hates liars, he hates Obie for putting him in this position. He continues anyway, the note cards in his hands anchored him, stopping him from floating in the clouds with his delusions of being a hero.  

 

He knows he's not a hero, how could he be? He's a deeply flawed man, bad code from his head to his toes. He didn’t even know his fortune came from killing the very people he swore to protect until it was in his face. He was ignorant and culpable even if he didn’t know about Obie’s double dealing, he should’ve noticed something was wrong. He’d never have the right stuff to become a hero. He's no Captain America, and he's definitely no Steve Rogers. Howard had made sure he learnt that lesson.

 

He's not a superhero, the idea is laughable, he says just as much.

“No one said you were a superhero,” Christine Everheart continues, and _God_ does Tony know that. He's a mess, a mistake but he can’t stop himself from wanting.

 

Flying had been amazing, freedom so palpable he could taste it. Saving those civilians in Gulmira had been him trying to gain redemption he didn’t deserve, but it had felt good knowing he was making a difference. Even if he had been the one to put them in that position in the first place. He knows he could never be truly good, not like a hero, not like _Steve_ , but perhaps he could try? He has a lot to make up for that’s for sure, Iron Man was as good a place to start as any.  

 

He breathes in. The note cards suddenly feel weightless. He speaks.

 

“The truth is, I am Iron Man.”

 

The words taste like salvation.


	2. PART I: 1974-1991

childhood

/ˈtʃʌɪldhʊd

noun

the state or period of being a child.


	3. Howard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief Trigger Warning for Child Abuse (we hate Howard)

Howard Stark loved his wife.

 

Maria Carbonell was beautiful and intelligent, with a filthy laugh and eyes that gleamed with self-confidence. He would move mountains for her smile, level cities for her laugh, cut down forests for a bit of her time. He would do anything for her, give her anything she could ever wish for. He would do anything for his wife, except love their son.

 

His wife, his beautiful Maria was sleeping in the hospital bed beside him, the exhaustion of labour and giving birth had caught up to her. From his place in the chair he could see the smoothed-out lines on her face, the barest impression of her dimple, the pretty curl of her blonde hair. Maria was breath-taking, even asleep, even after screaming herself hoarse during a complicated labour. The baby had been facing the wrong way, causing the labour to be longer and more painful. He couldn’t help but feel angry that this child was causing Maria so much pain, and it hadn’t even been born yet.

 

But she’d pushed through, and Anthony Stark was born on a fine May afternoon, screaming loud enough that even Howard, with his slight hearing loss from working with bombs, winced. The sun shone strong in the sky, but a storm settled in Howard’s chest. He felt turbulent, chaotic but numb at the same time, and when he looked at his son he felt nothing, so unlike the way he felt when he looked at his wife. He didn’t love his son, not even a little bit and he wasn’t sure if he ever would, nor if he cared.

 

He knew objectively that he was supposed to be overcome with joy at the prospect of creating a child with the woman he loved, but he felt no such sentiment. There were no tears whilst he stood at Maria’s bedside, holding her hand as she brought their son into the world. There was no sense of fulfilment when he held their son for the first time; the baby was oddly warm and squirmy, and Howard just felt uncomfortable looking into the deep brown eyes that mirrored his wife’s. Those beautiful, expressive eyes that he loved, looked wrong on the face of this child, _his_ child. The birth of his son was not the miracle it was coined to be, a rarity due to Howard’s age, instead it felt empty. It was clinical to him, a transaction that resulted in an heir for his company and annoyance for eighteen years. Howard wasn’t particularly sure if he was this disinterested in the prospect of all children, or just his own. All he knew was that he loved Maria unconditionally, perhaps obsessively, but he couldn’t even bring up a spare fond feeling for their son, _her_ son, nor could he bring himself to feel bad about it. He doesn’t want to be a father and he doesn’t want little Anthony Stark as a son.

 

“Mr Stark”, the nurse starts, “isn’t he beautiful?” Howard looks up, tearing his gaze away from the unnerving stare of his new born son to the young woman who addressed him. She looks frazzled, tired but ultimately content – happy even, the way he’s supposed to look after watching his wife give birth. He looks back down at Anthony. He looks fine for a baby, Howard assesses. He’s wrinkly and red from screaming but he guesses he has an objectively nice face, for a baby. He tries to muster up some semblance of feeling and speaks.

 

“Uh- yes quite, he’s darling sure, looks just like Maria.”

“Hmm,” she agreed, “just look at those gorgeous big brown eyes.” _Yeah,_ he thinks, _they’re big and uncomfortable to look at. I don’t want him._

 

He doesn’t reply. He hears the nurse sigh and leave the room, the door closing with a slight snick on the linoleum floor.

 

-

Tony knew his father didn’t love him. It was abundantly clear considering he barely saw his father outside of public events, or when he was struck by one of his ‘moods’. He knew this, yet he couldn’t help the jealousy stirring inside him when he saw his father with his mother. He understood, Tony’s mama was the best! But he still somehow hoped that one day his father would smile at him with half the happiness he smiled at his wife with. Tony wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong, but he was hoping the creation he was making would maybe make things better. If he just apologised and gave his dad the circuit board then maybe, just maybe, his dad would be happy with him. He might even be proud.

He wasn’t sure how other little boys made their fathers love them, had Tony done something wrong? Perhaps, but when he asked Ana her face went weird and she gave him extra dessert which she never does. She didn’t answer though. He’s not entirely sure why she wouldn’t tell him what he’d done, maybe she didn’t know? That was weird, but Tony didn’t want to annoy her by asking anymore questions.

Jarvis had tried to reassure him, “Young sir, the relationship between father and son can be difficult but your father loves you,” but Tony could tell Jarvis didn’t believe the words he was saying either. Tony would do a lot for Edwin Jarvis, but even he couldn’t stomach that lie. Tony knew Jarvis was just trying to be nice, so he smiled against the revulsion in his throat.

It was okay though, he didn’t need his dad to love him. He didn’t, really! It didn’t stop him from wanting him to.

 

Tony knew Jarvis loved him.

Sometimes at night, before he was old enough to know better, he wished on the stars that Jarvis could become his real dad. Jarvis was kind and funny, even with his no nonsense, prim and proper English attitude. Jarvis looked after him and encouraged him and even told him off sometimes, but he never hit Tony like dad did. Jarvis didn’t do a lot of things that dad did.

 

-

Tony’s Aunt Peggy was mesmerising. She was confident and funny and beautiful. Her hair was always perfectly styled, her mouth always stained fire truck red, but she held herself as if she was ready to fight at any moment. She was a perfect storm of a woman, a contradiction and a pillar of strength. Tony loved her fiercely. He didn’t get to see her often, since she worked with dad, but she always made time to tell him stories and give him little gifts when she was around.

“Tony, poppet, come sit with your Aunt Peggy for a bit,” she would say, her English accent strange yet familiar. She would tell him stories of Captain America, of his heroics and his bravery in fighting Hydra, but she would also tell him stories of Steve Rogers, the little guy with a heart too big for his body, who would risk his life to defend his country and save his best friend.

“Everyone remembers Captain America, but Steve? Steve was the real hero, a good man who just wanted to help, and I loved him for it,” her voice sounded a little sad, so Tony smiled at her as widely as he could.

“Do you think I could be good like Steve Rogers, Aunt Peggy?” Tony knew he wasn’t good yet because otherwise his dad would spend time with him, but maybe if he practised he’d be like Steve and his dad would love him. Tony really, _really_ wanted to be good, he did! He just didn’t know how yet, and he knew that made his dad angry.

“Oh Tony,” she sighed, but didn’t say anything else. Aunt Peggy was rarely speechless, maybe she didn’t know how to tell him that he’d never be like Steve. That was okay he guessed, maybe if he couldn’t be good he could build robots that would be? That would make dad happy right? He loved building things.

 

Tony was wrong.

 

-

The first time Tony had shown Howard one of his creations he said nothing except, “passable,” and walked away. Tony took that dismissive utterance as a win since Dad didn’t hit him or even _yell._ This time however, Tony’s cheek stung for hours afterwards. Dad’s heavy brass ring had left an indent in the smooth skin of his cheek, a physical reminder of his failure.

Tony knew he was useless, but he really thought his robot would make Dad happy. He was a _stupid, pathetic, ridiculous boy, who couldn’t even make something of value._ His tiny hands attacked the bot in front of him, ripping off limbs and tugging out wiring, the hot flush of shame overwhelming his small body.

 

_Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic._

-

He didn’t, _couldn’t_ stop creating. Even after his father’s rage had been imprinted into his skin, the itch to build and build and build lived on. His mind consumed with numbers, equations, blueprints. Jarvis always said that everyone has a calling, something that they were born to do, and Tony knew creation was his. His mind thought up impossibilities, his hands built marvels and Howard crushed them all.

Tony’s calling was creation, Howard’s was destruction.

He didn’t want to continue Howard’s legacy of destruction, he wanted to be something new, he wanted to create the future.

Tony hoped he’d get the chance.

 

-

“Oh, that’s beautiful, bambino, you are so clever!” His Mama said, a soft smile on her face. Tony’s Mama was the most beautiful woman in the world, and she always made time for him even when she was tired. Tony grinned up at his mother, relishing in her attention like a flower in the sun.

“My baby, a little creator!” she crowed.

Tony giggled in response, his body overcome with joy and love for his beautiful, soft Mama. Tony felt happy, he loved spending time with his Mama, and she always loved the things he made, even when he could pinpoint tons of improvements to be made. Being around his Mama felt safe, her love for him settling on his shoulders like an impenetrable shield. Tony was floating, his Mama made him feel weightless, like he could reach the stars with his fingertips. Tony felt happy.

 

Of course, it couldn’t last.

Tony’s father came, and he pulled Tony back to earth.

“Maria, for God’s sake stop encouraging the boy! Or do you want him to be fucking useless forever?” Howard snapped, from his position in the doorway. He was holding a glass of the brown liquid that Tony knew made him angry. This couldn’t be good.

“He is a child Howard, he is having fun! Let him be,” his Mama attempted to reason, her voice soft and placating. Howard stalked across the room, his polished oxfords on the tile sounded like the racing heart beating in Tony’s chest. He bent down and pulled Tony up from the ground, grip tight around his tiny forearm.

“You’re a waste of my time boy! Stuck in the clouds like a pathetic child, I’m sick of it,” Howard hissed. These were all words Tony had heard before, but they still sliced through his chest like a blade. He felt the sting of tears prickling in his eyes, he tried to blink them away, but his dad saw them.

“God, you’re so pathetic Tony! Crying over what? You can’t handle anything you’re too fucking soft, I told you Maria, I told you that you were coddling him!” His dad started to yell, incensed by Tony’s show of weakness.

“Howard, let him go! Calm down, Tony hasn’t done anything,” his mother continued.

“That’s exactly it Maria! He doesn’t do anything except cry and make his stupid robots!” Howard kicked the bot lying by his feet, “he’s a waste of my time!”

Howard tugged Tony across the room, Tony attempted to hold himself upright while his father moved with a sense of feral determination. He could hear his mother’s heels hitting the tile as she followed them, still futilely attempting to get Howard to calm down and let Tony go.

Howard stopped before the liquor cabinet, reaching for another glass, “it’s time for you to grow up Anthony, you’ve behaved like a child for too long,” he spoke as he poured a generous amount of scotch into the glass. Tony’s arm stung from the harsh grip his dad had on it, but even that couldn’t distract him from the fear that trembled throughout his body. Why was his dad doing this? Why wasn’t he good enough? Why? Why? Why?

Tony wished Jarvis was there to save him, Jarvis would be able to do what Mama couldn’t right?

“Drink!” his father ordered, shoving the drink in his face, “Drink it Tony! I haven’t got all day, you want to be a real man, don’t you?”

_No. no. no._

He nodded.

He sipped the drink.

Oh God it burned. It was horrible. Tony tried to squirm away, but his father moved his grip from his forearm to the back of Tony’s neck forcing his head back towards the drink.

“Drink it for fucks sake Tony!” his father snarled, his eyes wild and his face contorted in rage.

“Howard, stop it! Let him go!” Tony could just about hear his mother screaming over the blood pounding in his ears.

His father ignored her pleading and tipped Tony’s head back, forcing the drink to slip down Tony’s throat, making him splutter and choke. It burned its way down his throat, causing tears to spill down his chubby cheeks.

 

Tony hated his father.

 

-

Later that night, Jarvis came to put Tony to bed.

“I’m sorry young Sir, that I wasn’t there to help,” Jarvis admitted, his brows furrowed, and his mouth set grimly.

Tony just smiled, he knew Jarvis loved him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very nervous about posting this, I haven't written fanfiction nor posted it since 2014, and never for Marvel before so be kind please?  
> (PSA: The timeline of this story has been slightly altered from mcu canon to fit the narrative I had in my mind. So for the purposes of this story Tony was born in 1974, and he was 17 when his parents died in 1991).


End file.
